New York - The Novel

His mother had been delighted when, at the end of the war, he’d married Julie.
    And not too pleased last year, when they’d divorced.
    He’d supposed it was his fault. Julie had grown tired of his ever-shifting employment. Not that he didn’t earn any money. In the thirties, though money had been tight, he’d always got by with a variety of freelance activities. And even during the Depression you could make money in the entertainment industry. He’d collaborated on plays and movies; by the time he married, he’d even had a small share of a Broadway musical. And after Julie bought the apartment, he’d always been able to pay the maintenanceand that sort of thing. When their son was born, he’d hoped it would draw them closer.
    Little Gorham. Most of the people one knew had nicknames. If you were John, you became Jack. Henry was Harry, Augustus was Gus, Howard was Howie, Winthrop was Win, Prescott was Pres. That’s what people called you, people you knew, that is. But young Gorham, for some reason, had just stayed Gorham.
    Then Julie had told him she wanted a divorce so she could marry a doctor, from Staten Island, for God’s sake. Not that he had anything against Staten Island. The island borough of Richmond, as it officially was, had not been connected to any other borough by a bridge yet, so it still retained the rural, almost eighteenth-century character that Manhattan Island had entirely lost. The views across the water were pleasant, but it was inconvenient to go all the way out there to collect his son for the weekend.
    Julie and Gorham were waiting for him at the terminal. Julie was wearing a new coat and a small felt hat. She looked good. He hadn’t fought any of her demands for money when they divorced. It wasn’t worth the hassle. She’d sold the apartment and, as the doctor she married had a handsome house already, she had plenty to spend on herself.
    On the way back, he put his arm around his son and pointed things out to him. Gorham was five. He was fair-haired and blue-eyed like both of his parents. Children resemble various relatives at different ages, but for the moment at least, Gorham looked like his father. Charlie knew his son needed him, and he did his best for the boy.
    “Are we going to a show tonight?” Gorham asked.
    “Yes. We’re going to
South Pacific.”
    “We are? Really?”
    “I promised.”
    A huge smile appeared on the little boy’s face.
“South Pacific,”
he murmured.
    He was awfully young for it, but for some reason he’d set his heart on seeing the show, so what could you do? Some years back, when Charlie had first heard that James Michener’s book was being adapted into a musical by Rodgers and Hammerstein, he had wondered how it would work. Well, half a dozen smash hit songs and nearly two thousand performances later, he had his answer. Even now, he’d had to pay double price toa scalper for the seats he wanted tonight. He hoped after all this effort that the little boy would enjoy it.
    While his son contemplated the treat ahead, Charlie’s mind wandered back to the meeting he’d had with the girl.
    The photography collection was important to him. He’d been very fond of Edmund Keller. During the Depression Keller had not only been a good friend, but he’d even got him some lecturing assignments at Columbia that had provided some extra income. It had come as a hell of a shock when Keller told him a couple of years ago that he had cancer.
    “Charlie, I want you to be the guardian of my father’s photographs. There’s no one in the family who’d know how to deal with this. If you make any money out of it, then you should take a fee and pass on the rest to my estate. Would you do that for me?”
    The collection was magnificent. A small apartment in a building up on Riverside Drive, near Columbia, served as an office and storage space, and Charlie often liked to work up there. He’d made an approach to the gallery a little while ago, and the owner had come to see the collection and agreed on a show. Charlie would arrange the publicity.
    He’d been decidedly frustrated when the owner had suddenly handed over all the arrangements to some girl who’d only just started there. Reluctantly, he’d given her the portfolio he’d brought with him, and let her take a look at it.
    But instead of looking through it and making the usual polite noises, the girl had gone through the photographs, staring so intently through her glasses at each one that, for a